Relying on You
by Scifiroots
Summary: A Starbuck POV ficlet. Starbuck muses on matters of trust. Preslash


_Relying on You_

By: Clarity Scifiroots  
May 1, 2004  
5-minute challenge, starting with the word "Trust"  
Disclaimers: Usual disclaimers apply… Battlestar Galactica characters are not mine, this story, however, is. So there P

Summary: A Starbuck POV—he's musing about trust.  
Category: Pre-slash, romance (?), ficlet

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"Trust" is a pretty damn hard thing to bestow. There's some people who can easily believe somebody and immediately "trust" them—personally, I don't recommend that. You see, humans have this nasty habit of hurting other people. I don't know why. It's something ingrained in all of us, no matter who you were born to or where you were born; this isn't the sort of thing limited to a city's water supply.

I have trusted very few people completely over the years. I was alone, you see, early on and I sort of got the understanding that you can only rely on yourself. You can control yourself, but no matter how hard you try, you can't control someone else. Maybe that's why I've never feared torture. Well, I mean I fear the pain, but I don't worry about revealing the Fleet's secrets or whatever. I can control myself from telling. It's that simple, really.

Yeah, I've made mistakes. I have trusted some people that I shouldn't have. Hell, we _all_ put our trust in the wrong man when we relied on Baltar's word that the Cylons were preparing for a peace agreement. But I can't get angry at us—the trusting ones, the survivors—anymore. It's really pointless, you see, because we've paid so dearly for that misplaced trust. We lost literally everything—except these 226 ships, only one of them a Battlestar, and little more than 200,000 people.

We're alive, though, and that's something. That's a whole lot of something. I have trust in myself to do my job, to fly right and shoot the targets. I trust in my abilities to help get these people safely to a new home.

The thing is, I've realized that the trust I'm talking about isn't solely on myself anymore. I mean, I've tried to avoid that deep-felt trust—the sort that is supposed to be the foundation of every good relationship. Yet somehow I started to trust some of the others. I have faith in my friends, in the Colonel and in the Commander. Heck, even in Boxey, Apollo's kid. I look into the kid's eyes and I know that he's going to be the future. I trust him to get there.

I don't know what to think, really. I'm still careful about all of this. And I don't let on that I trust them. I need to keep them on their toes, after all. But I think some of them know what's going on. Apollo gives me that little smug smile every now and then when he climbs into his viper beside mine. Command was talking about rearranging wingmen, but I didn't volunteer to be part of that. I keep telling Boomer and Apollo that I don't want to chance getting paired up with some rookie who doesn't know my moves, but I don't think they believe me.

And I guess they shouldn't; it's only a small fraction of the truth, after all.

The thing is, this trust is pretty deep. Sometimes I'll look at my Captain and my chest aches and my heart pounds. I don't know why. All I know is that I'm trusting him a lot more than perhaps I should—especially tonight. He invited me to his quarters, for a private dinner. I accepted, but maybe I shouldn't have. The thing is, my chest didn't ache so much when he asked. He looked pretty shy, sort of like he did back when I first met him. I think I smiled at him when I accepted. It wasn't my usual smile, though, which makes me a little nervous.

So, I'm dressed in something comfy yet nice-looking, one of my special get-ups usually reserved for impressing an especially hot date. I don't know why I chose this, but I think it's right. I'm standing just a few feet from Apollo's door, debating just how much I trust my friend—my best friend.

I do trust him to behave himself, whatever that means. I mean, I trust him to recognize my reactions and my moods, to not push anything—if there is anything to push. What am I saying? I really don't know, but my cheeks feel hot and I run my hand down my shirt—smoothing the wrinkles—and just barely brush my groin. That feels a little too good, considering who I'm going to see.

Damn, I'm nervous, and I almost want to run away… Almost. Because I know that I trust him. I trust that he knows me, maybe better than myself, sometimes. I trust he knows what he's doing and that he'll lead me in the direction I'm wanting this to go.

I trust him to lend me the courage to face this new "thing."

I ring the door chime. When he answers, I smile slowly as I realize that the lights behind him are dimmed. He's slightly flushed, his eyes bright, and I can read his longing to reach out and touch me. And you know what? I want him to.

"Come in," he says.

I step inside.

End 


End file.
